


this mess is mine

by fanforfanatic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Behavior, Mental Health Issues, Smut, reckless behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic/pseuds/fanforfanatic
Summary: You grow up with the Winchesters, but Dean doesn't recognise you anymore.





	this mess is mine

You’re twenty years old the first time it happens. Or the first time someone notices it happen, anyway. 

Sam is away at college; he left a few weeks ago. John left a few weeks ago too. He checks in every fourteen days on the dot, says that he’s hunting down leads. He can very well hunt leads with you and Dean but you both know that's not why he’s gone off on his own. You both know he can't bear to look at Dean. Not when all Dean does, just by being, is remind him of Sam. Of their mother. That’s not something you talk about, though.

You start off irritable. There’s nothing Dean does that doesn't piss you off and you let him know. He figures it has everything to do with sharing a motel room and the front seat of Baby for as long as you have. Figures it has everything to do with how Sammy’s gone now.

Still, he thinks you two are doing alright overall. When you aren't pissed, you laugh harder than you have in the past, louder, more often even. Like you’ve discovered there’s humour in things that have been around you your whole life, you just hadn't picked up on it yet. You laugh at Dean's jokes a lot more, and he likes that.

Dean thinks he’s doing alright too. He thought he’d be climbing the walls, he thought he’d resent his dad for letting Sam go. Thought he’d go off on you just because you’re there, just because he knows you’d take it. He tries not to think about Sam as much, for his sanity’s sake; there’s enough horror in his life. He just works. Case after case, killing thing after thing. With you.

The pair of you track a vampire nest just outside of an average sized town. Dean is thinking up strategies and contingency plans and you’re strolling right up to the barn, machete twirling in one hand.

“Hey, wait, what are you—dammit!” Dean runs after you. 

In the future, Dean will be known for his half cocked plans and suicide missions, but at this point in time, twenty two year old Dean has never been so reckless on a hunt. He was taught better. Trained better. He thought you were too.

There’s only five vampires and by the time he gets to his second one you swoop in with an assist, the other three already beheaded.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean screeches at you, voice embarrassingly pitched.

You laugh. You  _ laugh _ . “Fucking awesome is what it was!” You stoop down, checking the pockets of a corpse, hoping to find cash.

“No, sweetheart, it was irresponsible and—”

You laugh again and Dean has always liked your laugh but it doesn't sit right with him just then.

“Irresponsible.” You mimic. “God Dean, please tell me you heard yourself because that’s the funniest shit since Sam pretended he—Oh. Right.” You laugh some more. “We don’t talk about Sam.”

You count bills as you strut out of the barn, leaving Dean to trail after you in shock and annoyance.

 

Other instances like that one occur during the following weeks. It’s not just on hunts either. You’re a little wilder overall, a little more impulsive.

“I could have sworn I had enough for the weekend,” Dean says under his breath, double checking his wallet and then his pockets.

The lady behind the motel counter says, “Uh huh,” and raises an unimpressed brow.

Dean sighs, realising that, not for the first time, you must have blown through their cash. Another night in Baby then, it’s only a little cold. He supposes, it could be worse. He could be alone.

 

Dean has never killed so many monsters in as little time. The two of you are on a roll. Full of pride, he almost told his Dad at the last two week check-in, but John never lingers on calls.

“You’re really something, you know that?” Dean tells you, an easy chuckle rolling out of him as he locks the motel room door after another successful hunt.

You spin to face him, and curtsey, stumbling a little as you do so.

Dean’s been with you all day so he knows you haven’t had a lick of booze and he knows you haven’t touched the weed you two keep stashed between the knives and the daggers in the trunk. You’re not drunk or high, but you sure seem like it. All the time, really.

“A Winchester after my own heart,” you say with flourish, draping a hand over the left side of your chest.

Dean rolls his eyes and bends to put the salt line back in place.

Great fucking ass, you think.

“I can feel your eyes on a my rear end, you know?” You can’t see his face but you know Dean is smirking.

“All I see is denim. I bet you can do about that.”

When Dean’s standing and facing you again, you grin wickedly.

Dean laughs, “You’ve been waiting a while to put the moves on me, huh?” He teases. 

This is something that you two do. Mock-seduce each other, flirt, touch a little too much sometimes, but it doesn’t lead to anything. It can’t really, you grew up together, you’re family.

“That’s no secret,” you admit, your voice dropping to something sultry.

Dean does an auditory double take: that’s new. You stride towards him and crowd him against the door. The knob digs into the top of his ass but he’s focused on the predatory look you’re giving him.

Dean swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “You… You’re not messing?”

Your lips curl upwards and Dean’s too busy thinking that you’re hot to realise that the look in your eyes isn’t entirely right.

“I’ve never lied to you before.”

“That I know of,” Dean jokes in an attempt to alleviate the tension sparking the room.

“I’ve never lied to you before,” you repeat and Dean believes you.

Of course he does, you two don't do that. You’re not his kid brother. Dean’s never had to shield you from the horrors, you two brace them together. Dean’s never had to hide from you the parts of him that are soft either. You're not John, you won't scold him for having them. You keep each other human. More saviours than killers.

“We're really doing this?” Dean asks a little breathless and sounding a lot like hope.

Lately Dean hasn't been able to shut you up, you’re always rambling, but right now you're quiet. Dean would think you're taunting him with your silence but he can see you deliberating in your head. He thinks you think this is just as monumental as he does. A big step for the two if you. 

It’s not the case.

You’re thinking about what you want to do to him first, the too-many thoughts race each other, and you can’t settle on one. Eventually, you're on him to work Dean’s clothes off like it’s a quest. 

Dean is charmed by your enthusiasm—enough that he lets out a (very manly) giggle—but even he draws the line at motel carpet sex.

He tries to guide you to the bed and you huff in annoyance but there's a laugh in there somewhere. You run the few feet to the closest bed and Dean chases you because he can.

Any illusions that he’s the one in control disappear when you flip him over, so you're on top. You grind the heel of your hands into the front of his shoulders, hurting his collarbones a little, and dig your blunt nails into the back of his shoulders, bruising the skin there a little. That's alright with Dean, he likes a little pain.

You grin at him again before sweeping him up off his feet and into some sort of tornado with a kiss that's all teeth and bite and a little more pain but a lot of pleasure.

You sink onto him in one sudden, smooth motion, and it knocks the air out of Dean. You barely pause, riding his dick and wincing at the stretch but not more than you're moaning for it.

Dean tells you he's going to come and it might be a little fast but he’s too far gone to be embarrassed.

You laugh, a startling sound in the room that's been nothing but slapping skin, soft pants and toe curling moans. You wink and say, “Me first,” and come on his cock.

Dean watches your face. Eyes shut, lips parted, cheeks flushed, he’s never seen you more beautiful.

He grunts when you keep moving above him and says, through clenched teeth, “No, I'm gonna come and I didn't put on a condom.”

He tries to shift you off of him so he can correct this but you rock your hips just so and put more force in how you're pinning him. “I don’t care,” you say and mean it.

Dean sobers. This isn't the type of risk you’d take. He tries to turn you again, putting real strength into it. 

He gets you on your back and tells you it'll only take a second. Then he’s back and Dean fucks you right. He’s got you close by the time he comes so he finishes you off again on his tongue.

He tries to take his time, tries to tease you, but you tug at his hair insistently and cuss at him consistently so he laughs and gives you what you want.

You both lie there for a few minutes. Dean settles into your bed, makes himself comfortable by your side. You two haven't slept—just slept—together since your breast first made an appearance and John started renting two rooms. Well there were those few nights after Sam left for school but you didn’t really sleep, just clutched at each other and pretended neither of you were crying.

Dean’s thinking about what this means for you two, about how much this will change things. You’re not thinking of this at all. 

All of five minutes go by before you're rolling out of bed (actually rolling on the mattress until your feet can find the floor). Dean probably shouldn’t be surprised. You haven’t slept through the night in a month. You’re barely able to sit still, it’s made the long drives a nightmare.

You stand, uninhibited in your nakedness though you start to put clothes on.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean says, propped on an elbow and a dirty smile on his lips.

You pause, one leg hovering above your jeans, like you're considering his words. You decide this small town isn’t ready for someone to walk its streets in the nude.

“I wanna go out,” you say. “I want a drink.”

“I have a bottle of jack in my-”

“I want to go out,” you bite. You’re still irritable, still a tightly wound wire ready to snap if not stroked just right.

Dean frowns which isn’t at all representative of how crushed he really feels.

“Because of what we did?” He sounds painfully vulnerable.

You pause. You feel like you're going a mile a minute, you're go go go and the world is just too slow, but you think you'll always pause for Dean.

You laugh. “No, I just want to go out, Dean. Let's have some fun! When's the last time we went out? Let's go out!”

“Umm… Last...” You want to grip Dean’s shoulders and shake him like a rattle as though that will make the words tumble out of him faster. He speaks so slow. “...night. Last time we went out was last night.”

“Too long ago!” You declare. You’re dressed now and by the door. “Are you coming?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming.”

You tap your foot as Dean gets himself together. He’s only managed to put on his boxers when you grunt out that you'll wait by the car and leave the room.

When Dean follows he finds you talking to—rambling at—an annoyed couple by the neighbouring motel room. You’re clearly interrupting the progression of their evening. It mustn't be clear to you though because Dean has to drag you away from them.

At the bar, Dean turns down the cute bartender that flirts with him, but then you start flirting with the cute bartender.

Dean is (half) joking when he whispers in your ear with a deep chuckle, “Are you angling for a threesome?”

You turn your head to look at him with wide eyes, and Dean thinks maybe the thought hadn't even occurred to you. You don't even try for inconspicuous when you too-loudly say, “Yeah! Let's have sex with other people! That’d be fun.”

The bartender seems on board enough but business picks up and when she brings you and Dean drinks she stops lingering.

When you're on your way back from the bathroom, later, Dean spots you stop to chat up some dude. Not what he had in mind but the guy is decent looking and it's not like Dean isn't curious.

Dean sidles up behind you and hears the guy ask over the loud music, “What are you in town for?”

Dean can’t believe his ears when you answer, “Oh! I’m hunting monsters! Well, one monster, a rugaru—”

“This one! Crazy ideas when she starts drinking,” Dean cuts you off with a too wide smile and a hand clamped down on your shoulder. It looks casual and friendly but Dean squeezes in warning when you open your mouth to say  _ no it’s true! _

At twenty, maybe it isn’t the first time it happens, maybe it isn’t the first time your behaviour shifts into somewhat irrational territory, but it’s the first time anyone notices and it’s Dean that does and it’s on that night.

He knows something’s not right and he can’t help but wonder how long it’s been this way. Was it even you when you two did what you did?

When he gets you back to the motel it’s with a sunken heart that he searches the room for a hex bag. He forces you to make yourself throw up in case you’ve been poisoned. He splashes you with holy water and cuts you with silver and presses iron against your skin. 

Dean considers calling his dad. You’re not John’s daughter but you’re family. Dean does call his dad but it’s two weeks later when you’re even more off the handle and you two have had a fight.

You were flirting with another guy in another bar and Dean was sick of seeing it happen. Sick to his stomach with how you seemed to have forgotten the sex you two had. Ill with the thought that, to you, Dean was just like the string of men you’ve been sleeping with lately.

Dean marched up to the guy in question and barked at him to get lost. 

He was just as tall as Dean, maybe just as built too, but he was smart enough to tell that Dean would knock him out. He sent you a look, to make sure you were alright with being left with Dean. He had seen you two walk in together, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He decided you were good to go because your silly smile hadn’t left your lips.

Dean lead you out of the bar with fingers tightly curled around your elbow. When you arrived by the Impala he didn’t let go.

“You’re acting like a slut,” he told you to be mean, because Dean’s hurt and confused and he doesn’t fully recognise you anymore.

You laughed. You’re always laughing. “So?”

“So?” Dean echoed.

“Yeah, nothing wrong with that.” You laughed again.

So maybe it was a one-sided fight, where Dean unfairly lashed out at you. But it pushes him to call his dad that night. John doesn’t answer, he rarely does unless fourteen days have gone by.

Dean tries to get you to bed and for once you make it easy on him, giggling all the while. 

“You think tomorrow we’ll catch a case?” you ask wistfully once Dean is done tucking you in.

Dean has spotted at least five possible cases in the newspaper, today alone. The last few weeks, he hasn’t really felt like he could trust you to hunt. He hasn’t lied to you about it, just omitted certain truths and steered conversations elsewhere. He tries to think up an answer for you now, but you don’t wait on him.

“Haven’t had a shifter in a while,” you say, just before falling asleep.

Dean is in over his head. He has no clue what’s going on with you. He did some research at some random library a few days back but what came up was drugs and a couple random illnesses. Nothing in the lore.

He thinks about calling Sam. He doesn’t.

 

The game changes the next morning when you won’t even get out of bed.

At first Dean thinks you’re angling for a lazy day, then he thinks you’re trying to get him to go get food (which he does, your appetite has been insatiable lately), then he thinks you’re messing with him when you don’t eat it, when you won’t even sit up.

Sometimes your slow blinks are the only thing that reassure him that you’re still alive.

Around mid-afternoon, he tries to physically drag you out of bed. He’s had enough. Obviously, so have you because you end up kicking him away and screaming. A long continuous yell that you punctuate with a shouted, “Just leave me alone.” It’s more heartbreaking than petulant teenager.

Especially when you start to cry. Full bodied crying that has you shaking, sobs that split the calm. You startle Dean, and he’s still not sure that you aren’t messing with him, but he moves onto the bed, knee walks his way up to you and holds your thrashing body to his. He doesn’t think it helps because it has you crying more, you hold onto his shirt when he starts to move away so he stays.

 

A month later, when you’re more like yourself, though one day you’ll understand that it’s all part of you, you walk out of a clinic and up to Dean, leaning against the impala, with a shiny diagnosis tucked into your DNA and a doctor’s note in your back pocket to label it.

“So?” Dean asks when you come to a stop in front of him.

You don’t answer.

“What did the doctor say?” he pushes.

“Nothing to report.”

“You’re lying,” Dean says and he’s surprised but not angry. 

Dean’s never been lied to by you before, but he’s seen you spew fables like a pro so he knows your tell. He wasn’t looking so he didn’t notice it. Still, his instincts knew that you were not telling the truth.

“Yeah, I’m lying,” you admit, and a heavy tired feeling embodies you in the same beat. You don’t have any understanding of what you’re life is going to be from now on, and the idea that you’ll have to figure it out exhausts you.

“So?” Dean repeats, offering you a clean slate.

“They...um...”

“They huh? So you got a whole team of ‘em. You must be something special.”

The joke falls flat but you’re grateful that he tried.

“I’m bipolar, Dean.” And then, because you’re afraid of his response you ramble. “Or I have bipolar. Semantics, I guess. I don’t know. It’s not— It’s manageable but it’s— It’s not something that’s ever going away and I— They gave me pamphlets and the information on there isn’t necessarily what you’d expect so don’t start thinking things because they’re probably the wrong things to be thinking and I don’t want you to think less of—”

Dean tugs you into his arms and into a hug and your skin hums with the meeting of home.

 

You and Dean stick around that town for a few months, long enough for a doctor to figure out which combination of medication works for you. You feel like a guinea pig more than anything else, toyed with and at the mercy of the whims of whatever chemicals they have you ingesting this round. It’s a lot of trial and error. Ups and downs. Funny how those words have a new meaning for you, now.

One week, during your stay, you’re especially wonky. That’s the word you use because you don’t want to call yourself moody. You’re on two different antidepressants, one mood stabilizer and you have a bottle of little blue pills to help you sleep. Those are on an as-needed basis and you need them every night but they leave you with a nasty taste in your mouth, like you’ve been sucking on a rusty pipe in your sleep, a taste that ends up being a constant reminder throughout the next day that your brain is broken. You barely use them.

Anyway, one week you’re especially wonky and you don’t know if it’s because of the ever changing medication or if it’s you, and you realise the doubt is going to be your life forever.

“Dammit Dean! When are you going to go already?” You shout at him which isn’t fair. You’re not angry with him, you don’t really have a right to be. He’s been nothing but great and kind and supportive. He’s handling it much better than you thought he would, which probably isn’t fair either.

“What?” Dean asks lifting his head from a notebook to look at you. 

“Look, you’ve been great, you have, but come on Dean. You’re not meant to be holed up in some random town. You need to go back out there. You need to hunt.” 

You’re frantic and you don’t know if it’s a sign you might be heading into a high or if it’s just you feeling frantic.

It’s not like you’re wrong. Dean does need to hunt, he’s feeling restless, but Dean hunts with you. How’s he supposed to go at it alone?

“Hey, hey, alright,” Dean stands, walks over to you and places his hands on your shoulders. “I don’t ever want to hear you say shit like that again. I’m not fucking going anywhere without you.”

You smack Dean’s hands off and take a step. You’re tearing up. You hate that you’re tearing up. “Fuck, Dean, you’ll waste away with me in here.”

“No one is wasting away. People with bipolar live normal lives, it’s just about finding the right medica-”

“Look at this place, Dean!” You spin once, throwing your hands up at the state of the room.

“I’m a slob, sue me,” Dean jokes.

“I’m the mess. I’m— Dean I don’t—” You choke on the words, gesturing to your disheveled state. You’re barely able to express just how disconnected you feel from yourself. How isolated from the world and from who you’ve always thought yourself to be. “I don’t remember who I was before the disease. I don’t even know her anymore. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. I’m a mess.” 

Dean wants to tell you a hundred and one things. Some he’s read at the library, some he’s listened to doctors say and some that come from him. He wants to tell you that maybe there is no before and after. That there is just you and that you are strong. He wants to tell you it’s more than possible to get a handle on this. That he’ll be there with you along the way. 

He wants to tell you that who you’re supposed to be is a badass hunter and it coincides with who you are. That you two will be out on the road before you know it. The family business. Maybe you two will have to make pit stops at the pharmacy—it’ll do some good to actually get a first aid kit anyway— and maybe staying up all night won’t be a regular thing anymore, maybe you guys stop eating crap diner food and actually consume something nutritious once in a while.

And maybe Dean is oversimplifying things but maybe that’s okay for now.

Dean puts his hands on your shoulders again and, referencing you or the room or both, he says, “This mess, it’s mine.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is a really old piece, so the writing isn't my best, but I've decided it needs to be left behind in 2017 as the new year begins.  
> Happy new year <3


End file.
